


Stealing Home

by Delwin



Series: ...and history books forgot about us (canonical AU's) [2]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 09:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13544472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delwin/pseuds/Delwin
Summary: “Fifteen years had passed since the senior staff of Voyager had gathered in the mess hall and declared themselves a family. Twenty years into their isolation together and they are still a family – just a highly dysfunctional one.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptAcorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptAcorn/gifts).



> Many months ago CaptAcorn sent a request: “I'd like to see a story focused on B'Elanna and one of the members of the command team: KJ or Chakotay…”
> 
> So that’s where this started…but it sort of expanded from there… Set in the middle of my earlier piece A Space Between, though hopefully it stands reasonably well on its own. 
> 
> And, as always, endless thanks to the ever-patient Photogirl1890 for all of her assistance from start to finish...

_“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.”_

_—Matsuo Bashō_

**  
**

…

 

“That can’t be right.”

Leaning forward, B’Elanna squints at the monitor, trying to make sense of the results on the screen.  She blinks and rubs at her eyes, before reaching for her mug which is, of course, empty.  Sighing, she rises tentatively from her chair, shrugging out the stiffness in her shoulders and glancing around the darkened living room to locate the coffee carafe.

“OK, computer,” she intones quietly: Miral is asleep in the smaller of the two bedrooms and the pre-teen hasn’t been sleeping well the last few nights. “Run a simulation using those parameters.”

The computer acquiesces with a beep. : _Simulation commencing_ :

Methane raindrops continue to splatter softly and soundlessly against the viewport; they haven’t let up for more than an hour at a time since _Voyager_ made its emergency landing on the moon six days before.  At least, B’Elanna reflects, the liquid is non-corrosive: a rare instance where their circumstances could actually have been worse.

B’Elanna spots the carafe – one of Tom’s better notions even in the years when personal replicators had still been operational – on the end table near the sofa. Limping over, she refills her mug and gratefully takes a long swallow. Spatial astrotheory is not her strong suit even when fully awake; when half-asleep, she might as well be trying to write a Drabian love sonnet.

Ignoring the pain in her ankle – the EMH had implored her to stay off of the sprain for at least another day – she hobbles back over to the monitor, her eyes shifting from the simulation’s scrolling streams of numbers to the text document still open on the screen. 

Sitting back down, she taps to enlarge the text, rereading through the paragraph that she has spent the last five hours mining. “Come on, Seven – tell me you have just one more trick up your sleeve.”

: _Simulation complete_ :

The latest simulation, B’Elanna notes without surprise, has ended in a catastrophic failure of structural integrity: she’s blown up her ship. Again. She scrolls back through the now familiar progression of events until a single variable catches her eye.

“Huh.”

She enlarges the section, compares it against the last paragraph of the text document.

“Computer,” she begins, taking another sip of coffee, “let’s try inverting the coefficient between the modulators and maximizing the main deflector amplitude.  And then,” B’Elanna hesitates, glancing at the chronometer, but, after all, she now has a full cup of coffee, “let’s run the simulation one more time.”

: _Parameters have been adjusted and the simulation is commencing_ :

“Seventeenth time’s the charm, right?” B’Elanna leans back into her chair, cupping her mug with both hands and closing her eyes to fully appreciate its warmth. Whoever had determined standard gray mode temperature for starships had not had half-Klingons in mind; B’Elanna can’t remember the last time she had felt truly warm. Certainly not since _Voyager_ had started its latest round of cat and mouse with the Borg…

: _Simulation complete_ :

Despite the coffee, she’d been half-drifting towards sleep and it takes an extra moment to open her eyes. It takes even longer to comprehend what’s flashing on the screen in front of her.

_Voyager_ is in one piece.

The coffee is still hot enough that, when it ends up in her lap, it causes her to jump up – much to the displeasure of her injured ankle. She yelps and then curses – quietly for Miral’s sake – before ignoring both her sodden uniform and her throbbing ankle and focusing squarely on the monitor.

Her ship had not blown up. And it’s forty-seven hundred light years away from where it had started.

B’Elanna reaches for her comm badge to call Tom and then stops. She slumps back into her seat – much to her ankle’s relief – fingers hovering over the badge. Swiveling the chair, she stares at the darkened bedroom door.

She lowers her hand.

“Computer, create a back-up file with the parameters from the last simulation. And,” she adds, glancing again at Miral’s door, “request a meeting with Captain Janeway in the morning.” Her gaze shifts back to the still blinking monitor. “As soon as she is able.”

Once the computer assures her that her work is saved and backed up, B’Elanna powers down the console and rises – carefully this time – to head to bed.

Morning will come all too soon.

…

 

“Come in.”

Kathryn looks up as her ready room door is opened and then winces as her chief engineer limps through and gingerly turns to pull the door closed behind her.  Kathryn starts to rise, but B’Elanna has already covered most of the distance to the waiting chair. “I could have come to you, you know,” Kathryn points out.

“I’m fine,” B’Elanna insists, stubbornly standing behind the empty chair – though Kathryn doesn’t miss the shift of the other woman’s weight to a single leg.

“Clearly.” Kathryn lets an eyebrow rise in exasperation, but she leaves the matter there: that’s one battle she’ll cede to Tom and the Doctor. “At least sit down.”

B’Elanna hesitates for a moment but practicality wins out over pride, and she moves around the chair to sit. Kathryn smiles in vicarious relief. “At least the turbolifts are back online this morning and you didn’t have to climb up eight decks on that ankle.” Kathryn tilts her head, considering the younger woman. “Though I get the sense you would have.” B’Elanna’s expression confirms that suspicion. “So what’s so important?”

B’Elanna motions toward the console on the desk and Kathryn nods her permission, swiveling the monitor to face the engineer.  B’Elanna quickly pulls up a file and then turns the screen back around: “This.”

Kathryn leans forward, scanning the results on the screen. Her eyes widen in surprise. “A spatial flexure?”

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“Created using the deflector dish…”

“Using the harmonics between the main and auxiliary deflector actually.”

Kathryn nods, scrolling down the screen. “This is remarkable work, B’Elanna.”

“It’s not mine.”

Kathryn looks up in puzzlement.  B’Elanna avoids catching her eye – and suddenly reminds Kathryn very much of the barely-more-than-adolescent Maquis whom Kathryn had met twenty years before. “B’Elanna?”

“It’s Seven’s. The theories and groundwork are Seven’s – I just worked out a couple of the variables at the end.”

“Seven’s?” Kathryn hears the rasp in her own voice. Deliberately she draws a long breath in and then, just as deliberately, exhales, re-focusing. “But I went through all of her official logs. There was nothing like this.”

“It wasn’t in her official logs.”

“B’Elanna…” Kathryn slumps back in her chair, distancing herself from the monitor with its possibilities of salvation. “Her personal logs?”

B’Elanna nods in confirmation, her gaze now steady.

“You broke into them?”

The engineer nods again. “Icheb had mentioned – years ago – that Seven had been interested in the idea of creating a spatial flexure – that she had debriefed him in detail on his experience with Q – the younger Q.” B’Elanna shrugs defensively. “I knew she would have kept her notes somewhere. And it wasn’t in her official logs, as you said.”

“Chakotay had her personal logs sealed.  He has always been very clear that they were to remain that way.” Kathryn’s brows rise. “You knew that.”

B’Elanna leans forward now. “We needed a miracle —we _need_ a miracle. I didn’t have any left.  I thought maybe Seven might be able to deliver one – one last time.” She gestures to the console on the desk. “And she did.”  B’Elanna sits back. “If Chakotay has a problem with that, he can take it up with me. In fact,” and her dark eyes flash, “I wish he would.”

Kathryn raises a hand back to the monitor, scrolling through the data, considering. But B’Elanna isn’t done: “And please don’t tell me, Captain, that you’re suddenly developing qualms about using research from ethically suspect sources.”

Kathryn’s head jerks up and her eyes narrow. But she waits a long beat before replying: B’Elanna is obviously spoiling for a fight. It will do Kathryn little good to rise to the bait.

“What does Tom think?” she tries instead. And then, as B’Elanna stiffens, Kathryn clarifies, indicating the monitor, “About the flexure.”

“I haven’t told him.”

Kathryn’s brows climb again. “That surprises me.”

“I wasn’t aware that the chief conn officer’s permission was needed before bringing an idea to the captain.” A minute before Kathryn would have sworn that it would be impossible for the engineer’s tone to be any more defensive. Clearly, she would have been very wrong.

Kathryn’s own voice has turned to gravel, but she keeps her temper in check. “Obviously that’s not the case. However, I assumed that given the implications of these findings, the two of you would have discussed them.”

“We might have, had I known where I could have found him. Would he be on a second shift on the bridge?” B’Elanna begins ticking possibilities off on her fingers. “Or perhaps in the shuttlebay running flight simulations with pilot trainees?  Or sorting through personnel scheduling with department heads? Or…”

Kathryn holds up a hand. “Do you have a point, _Lieutenant_?”

B’Elanna blows past the implied warning. “My point, _Captain_ , is that there are only three people on this ship that you’ve ever fully trusted – and now you only have Tom left. And he knows that – and he’s slowly but surely drowning beneath the combined weight of duty and guilt.” With that pronouncement, B’Elanna’s anger seems to drain and she slumps back into her chair in resignation. “There isn’t much I can do about that but at least I could keep that,” she waves wearily toward the flexure calculations still displayed on the console, “off his desk – and off his conscience.”

Sighing, Kathryn closes her eyes, raking her fingers back through her graying hair.  She finds that she has no more will left for a fight than does her chief engineer.  Opening her eyes, she taps the console with a single finger. “I’ll call a senior staff meeting at 1300 hours to discuss this.” B’Elanna nods and begins to rise. “B’Elanna?” The other woman pauses. Kathryn weighs her words carefully: “There is no need to keep this information confidential from other senior officers until then.”

B’Elanna nods again, her expression neutral, and adds a, “Thank you, Captain,” before limping to the door. Once she is gone, Kathryn turns back to the monitor, staring with fixation at what could be _Voyager_ ’s salvation -- or its doom.

…

 

She tracks him down in the mess hall, engaged in a cutthroat game of durotta: Miral’s shriek of displeasure followed by a cascade of giggles meet B’Elanna as she walks through the open doorway.

B’Elanna smiles. Laughter has become a rarity for Miral over the last couple of months.  Except when she’s around her father.

“You and your mother – always falling for the Novakovich gambit,” she hears Tom tease as he reaches across the board to tweak his daughter’s nose, taking a bite out of the sandwich held in his other hand as he does so. Miral ducks away from her father’s gesture, still giggling.

B’Elanna grins – something which has also probably become a rarity -- and calls over: “I only fell for that ridiculous feint once.”

Tom looks up, visibly pleased to see her. He even manages to smother his frown of concern as he notices her still pronounced limp. “‘Once’ a week, for at least two months is more like it.” He winks at Miral, and then, so smoothly that B’Elanna can’t even think to protest, he stands and pulls over a third chair, having it ready for B’Elanna to drop into when she makes it to their table.

“Thanks,” she says simply and fully appreciates Tom’s nod and slight smile in reply: they’ll save that argument for another time.  B’Elanna looks over at her daughter who is pondering her next move, hand outstretched over the board. “Sleep well this morning?” she asks. Miral had still been snuggled deeply into her pillows and coverlet, one arm flung around an ever tolerant stuffed targ when B’Elanna had left their quarters earlier that morning.

Choosing a durotta piece and handing it to her father, Miral turns to B’Elanna with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe how tired I was!” Then she glances down at her mother’s ankle with a frown. “But I’m sorry I didn’t get up to grab the fresh coffee for you.”

B’Elanna waves away her concern. “I had an early meeting with the Captain – I wouldn’t have had time to drink it anyway.” She reaches over to muss Miral’s short curls. “But thank you, _targhHom_. It’s been nice not to have to come all the way up here chasing after it the last couple of days.”

Miral smiles and then turns her attention to the piece that Tom passes over to her. Tom, however, lifts an eyebrow at B’Elanna’s words. “An early meeting with Kathryn?” he inquires.

B’Elanna raises her chin to indicate Miral. “Later,” she tells him.  And then, “And you should eat your lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom replies, taking a large bite while Miral is contemplating her play.

The game ends abruptly a few moves later when Miral realizes that she’s fifteen minutes late to help Ensign Bronowski clean up the damaged airponics bay and, with a quick hug for each of her parents, runs off.

B’Elanna’s eyes linger on the door through which her daughter disappears.

“What is it?” Tom asks before finishing the final bite of his sandwich.

B’Elanna shakes her head. “It’s just been a while since I’ve seen her that happy.”

Tom nods, still chewing. “The extra sleep probably helped,” he suggests. “Normal hormonal twelve-year-old moodiness, do you think, or --”

“—very abnormal lifestyle stress?” B’Elanna finishes and shrugs. “Probably some of both.  She’s getting past the age where we can shield her from the worst of it.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Hell, she’s probably been past that age for a while, but it hasn’t been the worst of it.” Her ankle is throbbing again. “Or not this bad anyway.”

_It’s never been this bad._

Neither of them states the obvious.

Tom swipes at his fingers and mouth with a napkin and leans back in his chair.  He looks a full decade older now than he had just minutes before. “Your meeting with Kathryn?” he asks.

B’Elanna nods. “Yeah. We should talk about that.”

…

 

There is no one in the room that she does not hate right now.

Once the senior staff had gathered and settled into their accustomed seats, Kathryn had nodded over to B’Elanna to begin her presentation. B’Elanna had stood and limped over to the briefing room viewscreen, turning back around just in time to see the concerned and significant look passing between her husband and the EMH.

She had ignored it, gritted her teeth and begun her prepared explanation.

“Did you say a ‘spatial flexure’?” Chakotay had interrupted less than a minute in -- when had he last even bothered to speak at a staff meeting?His tone had been knowing and his expression had been hurt and betrayed – infuriatingly so.

Stone-faced, B’Elanna had nodded. “We’ll be able to create a resonant oscillation between the deflectors. Once the amplitude peaks, we should be able to open a flexure stable enough for _Voyager_ to pass through.”

As she had closed, the room sat silent until Tuvok, with a single raised eyebrow, had remarked, “Ingenious.”

“The theoretical work was Seven’s,” B’Elanna had quickly credited, silently cursing the Vulcan and not looking at Chakotay.

With that she had limped back to the briefing room table, bristling at yet another long glance between the Doctor and his sometime assistant – they just couldn’t help themselves, could they? – and settled herself in between that sometime assistant and Harry – the latter of whom was nearly twitching out of his seat.

“I can have the collimators modified within the day.” Harry leans across the table towards the Captain, two decades worth of slow-building impatience and frustration disconcertingly visible in his expression. “We could be ready to start testing by beta shift tomorrow.

B’Elanna opens her mouth to correct his assumptions but the Captain raises a hand first. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Harry, but we haven’t yet decided what option to pursue.” Kathryn’s eyes travel around the table: “That’s what this meeting is for.”

“What other options do we have?” Harry’s posture and tone are well past what would be acceptable on a normal Starfleet ship – or, for that matter, what would have been acceptable on _Voyager_ a decade before. 

“I assume the Gibrati’s offer is still on the table?” the Doctor pipes in from across the table. At his glance, Kathryn nods. “They were offering full sanctuary…”

“…on the condition that we destroy _Voyager_.” Beside B’Elanna, Harry slumps back into his chair, arms crossed. “The Gibrati will offer full sanctuary only if we agree to destroy _Voyager_.”

“A necessary condition if their plan is to succeed,” Tuvok notes from his position beside the EMH.  B’Elanna glances at the Vulcan whose fingers are steepled together and resting on the table. As he speaks, his gaze remains concentrated on his hands before him. B’Elanna sighs: Tuvok might contribute to the conversation but, undoubtedly, he will decline to offer his opinion on a course of action. “Without _Voyager_ ’s unique technologies, the crew would no longer be of interest to the Borg.”

“So we blow up the ship and live out our lives on an alien planet whose technological sophistication barely makes it out of Earth’s 21st century?” Harry retorts.

“At least we will have lives to live out – Lieutenant Torres’s plan is far from guaranteeing that.” The EMH glances at her apologetically, but B’Elanna’s stomachs are twisting at the Doctor’s all too accurate counter.

At the head of the table, Kathryn holds up a hand again. “Gentlemen, please.” She turns to Harry. “Lieutenant Kim, what’s our latest information on the Borg cube?”

At the Captain’s use of his rank, Harry’s arms relax as he sits up to something more like proper attention. “It’s flitting in and out at the far end of sensors: still searching for us.”

“And the ablative armor?”

B’Elanna stirs, turning to catch Harry’s grim nod before responding: “I’d estimate it’s at twenty percent integrity.” She hesitates and then adds the obvious: “It won’t last long against a full-out attack from a Borg cube.”

“And there’s no chance of replicating more mercassium?” Kathryn’s voice is steady, albeit strained.

B’Elanna glances again at Harry before shaking her head. “Not in the quantities that we would need to repair the armor, no.”

“Harry?” Beside B’Elanna, Harry turns to the Captain, his earlier anger now drained. “How long until the Borg find us?”

“The moon’s topaline and magnesite deposits should help mask the ship for a while longer, but I’d say they’ll have us within seventy-two hours.”

On her other side, B’Elanna feels Tom tense at Harry’s somber assessment, but he remains silent.  Even a couple of years before, he would have thrown out a joke – likely a bad one – to break the tension in the room. Now, as B’Elanna steals a quick glance in his direction, he simply looks tired.

Kathryn is speaking again: “…and time is very much a factor. I’d like to hear what each of you are thinking – Tuvok?”

B’Elanna growls internally as Tuvok begins his expected “given the impaired state of my reasoning abilities” non-response and Kathryn continues to move around the table.  The Doctor will be in favor of taking the Gibrati’s offer; Harry and B’Elanna herself will side with attempting the flexure.  Chakotay –

“Chakotay, what are your thoughts?” There is a level of carefulness that borders on brittleness as Kathryn addresses her first officer.

From the other end of the table, Chakotay shifts ever so slightly in his chair, half-raising a brow at the question. “You know my thoughts on this, Kathryn.  They haven’t changed since last we had this discussion – ten years ago.”

The temperature in the room seems to plummet another dozen degrees – B’Elanna knows that, if she were to turn, she would see the blood drained from both Tom’s and Kathryn’s faces.

_Fuck you, Chakotay. Fuck you and your fucking undying, self-righteous_ …

Recovering more quickly than B’Elanna, Kathryn moves on to her next officer: “Harry?”

Chakotay retreats back into silence and B’Elanna pulls her attention away from her one-time mentor, mentally completing her head count: two in favor of attempting the flexure; two wanting to take the Gibrati’s offered sanctuary – with Tom as the only undetermined voice. All B’Elanna’s maneuvering had gained her was a half-hour of briefing room hell: Tom’s thoughts would still be the only ones that the Captain needed to weigh. The rest of them might as well be reading from a well-worn script.

Fifteen years has passed since the senior staff of _Voyager_ had gathered in the mess hall and declared themselves a family. Twenty years into their isolation together and they are still a family – just a highly dysfunctional one.

Harry finishes up his enthusiastic endorsement of the flexure and B’Elanna follows with her more measured assent: she is the chief engineer of a starship. Her job is to figure out a way to keep the ship in one piece.  Right now, this is the best that she’s got.

With a nod to B’Elanna, Kathryn turns to Tom. “Commander Paris?”

_Tom had leant back in his chair, his eyes focused on his fingers as he brushed the crumbs from his sandwich onto his plate._

_“What are the odds that it will work?”_

_“If we get everything right? Fairly good.”_

_“Fairly?”_

_“It worked in the simulation, didn’t it?”_

_“And if we don’t get everything right?” His gaze had flicked first to the durotta board - the last three pieces left unplayed - and then up to B’Elanna, his fears all too easy to read, not least because they so closely matched her own. “What happens then?”_

_“Then we don’t get a second chance.”_

“Commander?”

Tom raises a hand and runs his fingers back along his ever receding hairline. He turns to look past B’Elanna to Harry. “‘Within’ seventy-two hours, Harry – do you think we’ll have that long?”

Harry nods, more confident now. “I do.”

Tom nods as well and then, turning back to Kathryn, raises a brow. “Then I think we need to try to pull out one more miracle.”

Kathryn raises her chin and draws a breath. “Harry, get started on the collimators. B’Elanna, pull extra staff to Engineering as you need them; coordinate with Tom on the scheduling.” B’Elanna gives her “Yes, ma’am,” along with Harry’s as the Captain formally ends the meeting, adding, as everyone starts to rise from their seats, “Commander Paris, if I could have a moment more of your time…”

B’Elanna manages not to roll her eyes as Tom promises to catch up with her in Engineering.

So much for trying to keep his desk and conscience clear.

…

 

She makes it halfway down the corridor before she hears her name. Drawing a breath, she straightens her shoulders and turns, meeting Chakotay head on as he approaches. “Chakotay, I’m a little busy at the…”

“You read her logs. Seven’s personal logs. You read them.” Chakotay’s voice is quiet. From long experience, B’Elanna recognizes the danger there.

In years past, that tone might have given her pause; now, it only fuels her own temper. “Yes, I did,” she admits readily. And then continues, “And you did too.” Chakotay opens his mouth to respond but B’Elanna cuts him off: “You read them and you knew about the flexure.” She looks at him in open disbelief. “You knew her theories were there – you knew they could save us.  And you said nothing.” B’Elanna searches his expression for some sign of the friend whom she had once trusted unquestioningly. “How could you?”

Chakotay has the grace to look discomfited. “You know how – and why.” He reaches for her arm. “B’Elanna, you must understand how I feel about this question–”

“To hell with your feelings, Chakotay. And no, no I don’t understand.” She backs away from his reach, fingernails pressing into the flesh of her palms. “And you know what? Neither would Seven.”

B’Elanna doesn’t see Chakotay’s reaction to her words; she’s already turned and continuing her slow progress toward Engineering.

…


	2. Chapter 2

Tom shifts his weight from his left foot to his right – imperceptibly he hopes. Though the quality of the Gibrati’s video feed is low enough that it likely doesn’t matter anyway.

“…it is to our sorrow to hear of your decision. It is…”

“…as we have to you said, our custom and our creed to offer sanctuary…”

“…to any in need. But it is seldom that we for the acceptance are so eager…”

“…as with you and your crew, Captain. We believe…”

“…we have much that we could teach, each to the other.”

The words pass seamlessly between the voices of the three Gibrati council members, the static on the viewscreen making it difficult for Tom to follow who is speaking at any one time. _Voyager_ had been surprised to receive any communication from the Gibrati at all: initial scans of the only class M planet within the system had shown a pre-warp society. That, they had discovered, was intentional. The original settlers to the planet had been survivors of a Borg attack that had eradicated the rest of their species. Once they had found a suitable planet for resettlement, the survivors had destroyed any technology that might once again attract Borg interest, including all of their warp capable ships. They had, however, kept their communication technology and, in the centuries since the colony’s founding, had used it to offer aid and sanctuary to any who might be passing through their system in need.

Tom again eases from one foot to the other. He had been meeting with Kathryn in the ready room when the current transmission from the Gibrati had come through and, following the Captain out onto the bridge, had found himself standing in no man’s land but well within sight of the viewscreen.

He looks with no little longing at the helm where Naomi Wildman is comfortably seated, running through a simulation Tom set up as part of her alternative-Academy training courses. Tom envies how at home the nineteen-year-old looks in her place at the conn.

Kathryn is speaking now, assuring the Gibrati of _Voyager_ ’s gratitude for their offer, soothing any rumpled feathers (perhaps literal feathers from what Tom can make out on the screen), doing her best to keep the Gibrati as a backdoor option. Just in case.

They had had few enough offers of friendship - or even non-hostile contacts - over the last decade. First the Fen Domar and then the Borg had kept the ship on the run. And, for the couple of years when they had been able to slip by without the Borg’s notice, they had traveled quickly, avoiding unnecessary contacts or detours. Without Seven’s knowledge of the quadrant, they had been largely flying blind.

And then the Borg had found them again.

“…we have, of course, understanding of your desire…”

“…not to abandon your long journey. Our offer…”

“…will remain, should you reconsider your choice.”

Tom glances at Kathryn, looking for any reaction to those words.  When last they had faced this decision - whether to settle safely on a hospitable planet or fly into danger - it had been ten years before, with the ship weakened by an encounter with a cyclical vortex and on the border of Fen Domar space.

There hadn’t been a senior staff meeting that time - only a long conversation between the Captain and her First Officer behind the closed doors of the ready room.  A conversation out of which Chakotay had walked visibly shaken and frustrated.

A week later Chakotay was in Sickbay, holding his dead wife in his arms as Tom had looked on, his hands and uniform still covered with Seven’s blood.

Since Seven’s death, there had been twenty-one more funerals aboard _Voyager_ – the last one only three days before.

Reconsider the choice? Absolutely. And reconsider again, and then reconsider again...

Tom’s gaze moves back to Naomi at the helm: gods, life had been easier when all he had to do was fly the fucking ship.

Kathryn finishes the call, with abundant expressions of gratitude and continued friendship.  As she motions for the communications line to be closed, she turns and catches Tom’s eye, and her expression is every bit as weary as Tom himself feels.

…

 

Standing at the upper level command station in Engineering, B’Elanna swears that the air still smells of ozone, but the filters should have cleared out any remaining impurities days ago. More likely her perception is psychosomatic: smell and emotion have always been strongly linked in her mind.

“Try adjusting the auxiliary variance to .07,” she calls down to Harry.

“I can try, but, unless we take the collimators completely offline, I doubt it will help.” B’Elanna can clearly hear in Harry’s voice all the frustration that she can’t see as he shouts up to her from the core station directly below her. Coordinating the main and auxiliary deflectors is proving finicky work, very much at odds with the intentions of _Voyager_ ’s Utopia Planitia designers.

Harry’s voice comes from below again: “I’m still getting too much blockage from the collimators; we can’t get the particle intensity we need from the auxiliary deflector.”

“I could attempt to manually suppress the collimators for the coherence length of the deflector beams,” Icheb suggests, looking over from where he is working at one of the other upper level consoles; the aft consoles on the main level are still completely blown out and are a low priority on the triaged list through which the round-the-clock repair teams are working. In a fully staffed Engineering department the extra consoles might be necessary; perpetually short-staffed as _Voyager_ has been for the last decade, they are redundant.

That said, B’Elanna could still do without the all-too-visible gash in her engine room.

She sighs, shifting weight back off her bad ankle. “OK, let’s try this again. Harry,” she calls downward, “keep the variance at .07 and let’s see whether Icheb can massage the collimators enough to make this work. I’ll coordinate with the main deflector from up here. Ready?” She looks over at Icheb who nods before turning his full attention to his console. “On my mark: three, two, one – mark.”

B’Elanna watches the progress of the simulation on the command console, the main deflector quickly building to the necessary amplitude while the auxiliary deflector, pushed well beyond its intended limits of use, lags behind.

In open space, they would never have been able to run these simulations, wouldn’t have been able to take both deflectors offline simultaneously. If they are able to successfully create a flexure, they will, ironically, have the events leading up to their emergency landing partially to thank.

Given the price paid, B’Elanna has a hard time feeling lucky.

On the screen in front of her, the readings from the auxiliary deflector spike momentarily and then collapse.

“Shit.” Harry’s reaction echoes from the lower level.

Out of the corner of her eye, B’Elanna catches Icheb’s quickly suppressed startle of surprise at the expletive. She sighs: as much as she herself has been known to at times storm her way through Engineering, there have always been limits - a necessary façade maintained by the senior staff under even most the extreme of circumstances when junior officers and crewmembers were present.

That façade is crumbling.

Turning away from Icheb, she hits her communicator: “Harry, why don’t you close things up down there for a minute and come up here.” It’s not quite a suggestion.

The upper level doors to her left open and Vorik enters, PADD in hand. She waits as he pulls the doors back closed behind him and then she asks, “The reserve EPS numbers?”

Vorik nods, crossing to her and holding out the PADD. “Indeed. Though I regret that they are not the results that you were hoping for.”

She thumbs on the PADD and frowns. Indeed they are not.

Harry emerges from the lower level, stepping off the lift before it slows to a halt. “I think maybe we should try fluctuating the variance to prevent the auxiliary deflector’s collapse.”

“We wouldn’t be able to match the variance between the two deflectors in real time,” counters Icheb, who has come over from his station to join the discussion. “But we could instead increase the deflector modulation.”

Vorik shakes his head. “My calculations indicate that the reserve power will not support further increases but perhaps alternating the wave patterns –”

“We tried that an hour ago,” Harry interrupts impatiently, “I still think that we need to –”

B’Elanna raises a hand. “All right. Stop.” She glances at the chronometer on her console. “It’s past 0200 hours. Everyone take a break – get a hot meal or some sleep or preferably both.  We’ll come back to this at 0700.”

Icheb and Vorik nod and move to leave, Icheb showing some visible relief. Harry, on the other hand, holds his ground. “I think we should keep going.”

Icheb and Vorik both pause, looking to B’Elanna for direction. B’Elanna takes a calming breath, reaching a hand up to massage the pressure at her temple. “Harry, we’ve been at this for hours. We’ll all be more productive after a break and have a better chance of getting this right.”

“Do you even care if we do?”

B’Elanna’s hand jerks back down to her side as her eyes snap up to Harry – she takes in his flushed face and clenched jaw.

Vorik and Icheb are still waiting. “Icheb – Vorik – we’ll meet back here at 0700. Get some rest – that’s an order.” Both men nod and leave through the upper door, Icheb pausing on his way out to glance at Harry with distaste. B’Elanna waits for the door to close behind them before turning on Harry.

“What the hell was that supposed to mean, Harry?”

Harry’s jaw continues to work. “Only that I wonder if you are as invested in making this work as the rest of us.”

“‘ _The rest of us_?’” She can feel the lines of her ridged forehead tightening.

“The rest of us besides you and Tom – the rest of us that don’t have the comforts of a spouse and kid to fall back on.” Harry crosses his arms against his chest.

B’Elanna opens her mouth and closes it again. At her sides, her nails dig into her palms. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m the one that dug up Seven’s research – Tom and I both supported the flexure –”

“ _Working on_ the flexure,” Harry interrupts, raising his brows. “You both supported continuing to work to see if opening a spatial flexure is a real possibility.” He gives her a tight-lipped smile. “But, if you’re being honest, wouldn’t a part of you be relieved if it’s not?”

She wants to hit him – to smash his nose in as she had done to poor Joe two decades before. But she isn’t an angry young Maquis anymore and he’s standing in her engine room where reminders of what others have sacrificed still hang in the air.

And Harry, _petaQ_ that he might be, is her friend.

B’Elanna relaxes her hands, makes sure her words come out quietly: “What the fuck, Harry?”

Harry’s jaw clenches again for a moment and then he relaxes, dropping his arms to his sides and shaking his head. “Look, B’Elanna, I…”

She holds up a hand, stopping him. “Harry?” He looks up and she gives him a weak smile. “0700, okay? Maybe try to get some sleep?”

He nods and tries to return her smile but his shoulders slump. He steps back onto the lift: “0700. Right.” And then descends back to the lower level.

Closing down her console, B’Elanna heads out the upper door, Harry’s words replaying in her mind.

…

 

Tom’s awake when she enters their quarters. Sprawled across the sofa with his long legs propped up on one armrest, he has a PADD in hand and at least a half dozen more stacked in a pile on the coffee table. On the muted television, a hockey game progresses unwatched.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” she asks as she slides the door closed behind her. Tom looks up and smiles, swinging his legs around to create an inviting space on the sofa.

“Don’t you?” he quips back but then bites at his lip as she hobbles across the room to collapse into the cushions next to him.

B’Elanna closes her eyes and draws in a long breath, briefly blocking out Tom’s poor attempt to mask his concern. Then, “You can go ahead and say it,” she offers, opening her eyes again and looking sideways at him.

“It’s part of the reason I stayed up,” he admits, eying her ankle. “But – and don’t take this the wrong way – you don’t seem to be in fighting shape.”

She sighs, bending down to gingerly pull off her boots. “Well, I’ve battled my way through most of the rest of the senior staff today; I wouldn’t want you to feel left out.”

“Chakotay?” Tom guesses. He gestures in invitation and she lets him pull her now unshod feet up into his lap. He hands her one pillow to stuff behind her back and gently places another under her calves, elevating her injured ankle.

“Chakotay,” B’Elanna confirms. “And the Captain. And Harry.” She grimaces.

“Harry, huh?” Tom raises an eyebrow as he begins to rub her uninjured foot. “I’m impressed.”

“Just one of those days.” She closes her eyes again, enjoying his touch.

“You against the galaxy,” he agrees, his fingers continuing to work their magic. “Poor galaxy.”

For a long moment, she lets herself relax into the familiar pressure of his hands loosening the tension in her muscles and ligaments, lets herself simply enjoy the comfort of his scent and his nearness.

Harry, she knows, hadn’t been wrong. At least not entirely so.

Reluctantly, she stirs, reopening her eyes.

“You want to check out the other one, don’t you?” she says, indicating her visibly swollen ankle.

Something in his expression shifts and, gods, he looks so tired. But he nods.

“It’s healing on its own,” she insists, her words sounding hollow even to her.

“B’Elanna…”

“It’s a sprain. Sprains heal.”

Tom sighs. “Unless they don’t.”

“I don’t have time…”

“It would take a half hour. At most.”

“I don’t have a half hour.”

He shakes his head, refusing that argument. “You could, if you wanted to.”

“You think I want to be limping around?”

Tom doesn’t answer but his expression speaks plainly enough.

She sits upright, moving away from the comfort of the cushions. Her voice stays low: they have long practice in arguing with Miral asleep in the next room. “You think I want this.”

Tom’s words come carefully: “I think Michelle was a valued member of your staff. And a friend.”

_Awakened from a dead sleep by the Red Alert. Pulling on her boots even as she comms Engineering. Processing Tom’s assurance that he’ll get Miral safely to the Doctor on his way to the bridge before he’s out the bedroom door ahead of her._

B’Elanna’s fingers rake across the textured cushions of the sofa. “This has nothing to do with Swinn…I’ve lost people before – lost friends…”

Tom’s voice is flat: “You think this time it should’ve been you.”

_:There’s a power build up in the EPS conduits: Swinn’s voice holds barely controlled panic._

_She’s already at the door. “Stay on top of it, Michelle. I’ll be there in three minutes. Just hold things together until I get there.”_

“I told her to stay.” B’Elanna doesn’t look at Tom, looks down at her ankle instead. “She stayed because I told her to stay.”

“She stayed because it was her job.”

B’Elanna had made it to the turbolift shaft when the internal explosion had rocked the ship, knocking her from the rungs and down to the deck two levels below. She had awakened in Sickbay hours later, with a concussion and an ankle badly sprained from her fall – and a view of the sheet covered body of Lieutenant Swinn.

Under threat of decompilation, the Doctor had told her what had happened: that the explosion of the EPS conduit had caused a plasma gas leak; that Swinn had evacuated Engineering, staying herself to vent the leak and prevent a core breech; that, as a result, _Voyager_ had been able to escape the attack of the Borg cube and find a temporary haven. And, that the corrosive damage of the gas on Swinn’s lungs had been irreversible.

When he had finished, B’Elanna had slid off the biobed and limped out through Sickbay’s door, ignoring the EMH’s shouted protests.

“Look, B’Elanna,” Tom shifts closer, finding her hand with his, “I understand that you feel responsible. But walking around with the guilt – literally – isn’t going to help anything.”

“Well you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” It comes out as a snarl, an instinctive defensive lunge.

Tom pulls back, stung. “I’d know about what?”

She already regrets saying it: she hadn’t meant to go there, not tonight.  Or this morning: looking out through the viewport a rusty orange dawn has begun to break. Ship’s time hasn’t been synchronized to the moon’s rotation but the signs of light add to B’Elanna’s feeling that this day has already stretched on far too long.

Still, as Tom himself might say, in for a penny, in for a pound.

She turns back to her husband, keeping her voice calm, even quiet: “Thomas Eugene Paris, what is your position aboard _Voyager_?”

Tom tilts his head, confused by her change in tone, but answers gamely, “Chief Helm Officer.”

“And when did you last sit at the helm?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“And what are all these?” B’Elanna indicates the stack of PADDs sitting on the coffee table. She picks up the top PADD, thumbing it on and perusing the contents. “Crew duty shift assignments? For helm duty?” She continues scrolling down. “Security, Ops, Sickbay -- Engineering.” She raises an eyebrow at Tom whose expression has tightened. “I had no idea my department fell under the purview of the Chief Helm Officer.”

“B’Elanna…”

She picks up and thumbs on the next PADD. “Resource rationing reports from Chell and Ensign Bronowski?” She grabs the next one as well. “Systems allocations?” She gives Tom a tightlipped smile: “Now that one is from me – addressed, per Starfleet protocol, to the ship’s first officer.”

“B’Elanna –”

“ _Voyager_ does still have a first officer, don’t we?”

“B’Elanna, if it had been you – if you had…if something had happened to you –”

She shakes her head, rejecting that. “You would have mourned me. And then,” she locks eyes with him, “you would have gotten back to doing your fucking job.” She throws up her hands in frustration. “But between your guilt and Kathryn’s, you’ve enabled this for the last ten years.”

Tom looks away with a sigh, rubbing at the nape of his neck and avoiding her gaze. She’s telling him nothing that he doesn’t already know.

B’Elanna looks at him, trying to find the pilot who used to bounce around the ship, conjuring up projects upon which to expend his seemingly endless energy and creativity, or the new father who contentedly took a “parental leave – _Voyager_ style”, cutting down his shifts to a bare minimum for the months it took Miral to adjust herself to a twenty-four hour clock.

Did the Gibrati’s planet have an ocean with sand covered beaches? _Warm_ sand covered beaches? Somewhere where they could build a small house for themselves – they didn’t need much room. She and Tom and Miral were used to living on top of each other. Maybe they’d build a sailboat as well: Tom could teach Miral to sail while B’Elanna watched from the shore with book in hand, soaking up the warmth of the sun’s rays.

B’Elanna shakes her head, clearing the fantasy.

Tom’s hand is still working at the ever-present tension at the back of his neck. She reaches out and grasps his elbow. He slides his hand down to join hers.

“I know you feel responsible for Seven’s death. But,” she waits a beat until he looks up at her, “I don’t know how much longer you can keep going like this.” With her free hand she gestures to the still significant stack of PADDs, then to Miral’s bedroom door, then out towards the ship generally.

Tom shrugs, ready, she knows, to dismiss her concerns. Then he stops. The pieces fall into place, and he raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Is this why you didn’t tell me about the flexure before going to Kathryn with it?”

B’Elanna growls at her own incompetence. “For all the good it did me - or you - yes: this is why I didn’t come to you first.”

Tom snorts a laugh; B’Elanna responds with a ghost of a smile. “As it turns out, it all may not matter anyway. It looks like the flexure might be possible in theory only.”

He cocks his head. “Why?”

She sighs. “We may simply be too far from what the deflectors were designed to do. We can push the main deflector to emit the necessary particle intensity but the auxiliary deflector needs a power boost from somewhere – and we’re out of somewheres.”

Tom’s brow furrows in thought. “So you need another source of power that could be tied into the deflectors?”

“Basically, yes.” Then, reading his expression, she asks, “Why?”

His brow smooths. “Because I may have an idea.” He holds up a finger to forestall her question, instead tapping his communicator. “Paris to Chakotay. Sorry to wake you, Commander, but I need a few minutes of your time.” And, meeting B’Elanna’s confused look, he adds, “We have a problem that I think you might be uniquely suited to help us solve.” 


	3. Chapter 3

The dull glow of dawn has given way to a slightly more luminous daylight bronze – and, incredibly, the methane rain seems finally to have let up.

Kathryn’s gaze is fixed out the viewport as she stands on the upper dais of her ready room, but B’Elanna doubts that the Captain sees either the smooth stretch of the hydrocarbon lake or the weather eroded hills in the distance.

“He agreed to help?” Kathryn’s eyes stay carefully on the moonscape, her hands clutched together too tightly behind her back.

B’Elanna nods and then, realizing that the other woman might miss the slight motion, adds, “Yes, ma’am. He’s working with Harry and Icheb now.”

Kathryn’s chin tilts up as she draws a slow breath in through her nostrils. B’Elanna bites at her lip, shifting her gaze downward. Even in the best of times, B’Elanna had been less than comfortable navigating the space between _Voyager_ ’s command team. And the last decade has been far from the best of times.

“How, if I may ask, did you convince him?” The question comes out almost as a rasp.

“I didn’t,” B’Elanna answers readily, more thankful than she’d admit not to have a fuller answer to her captain’s question. “Tom talked to him alone.”

Tom’s idea had been simple in concept: Chakotay had once before been able to tie the main deflector into the navigational sensors in order to guide _Voyager_ out of chaotic space. If he could repeat the feat, they should be able to reverse the process, using the sensors to provide the additional power needed to the two deflectors to create a spatial flexure.

B’Elanna had offered to accompany Tom to Chakotay’s quarters but Tom had declined, urging her to get an hour or two of sleep instead.  Some undefined period of time later, she had awoken to find herself still curled up on the sofa with Tom back at her side looking, if possible, yet more drawn and exhausted. He had told her only that Chakotay had agreed to help. Two minutes later, B’Elanna had her boots back on and was heading out the door, comming Harry to meet her in Engineering; Tom was already sprawled in her place on the sofa, fast asleep.

“Our initial trials have been very promising,” B’Elanna continues, still avoiding looking directly at Kathryn. “Chakotay was able to recreate the sequences that he used previously, and Harry and Icheb are working to invert the process. We are hoping to be able to run new simulations within the hour.”

Kathryn nods and releases her hands to her sides, turning to face B’Elanna. “And the effect on the sensors?”

Relieved as she is to be back on more neutral ground, B’Elanna still grimaces at the question. “We think that we should be able to limit the power transfer to the lateral sensors only…”

“…but those will be offline,” Kathryn finishes, raising an eyebrow. “That should make things a little more interesting.”

“Tom’s convinced he can handle it.”

Kathryn snorts softly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “I’m sure he is.” She waves a hand, moving on to the next problem: “And navigating once we enter the flexure?”

“Also makes things a little more interesting,” B’Elanna admits. “We should be able to give the flexure a vector but will have minimal control over distance.”

“So we point towards the Alpha Quadrant and hope for the best?” Kathryn summarizes helpfully.

“More or less.”

A wry smile again tugs at Kathryn’s lips. “We really are putting all our eggs in one basket, and a rather frayed basket at that, aren’t we?”

“Our ‘suicide squeeze’.” At Kathryn’s raised brow, B’Elanna explains, “That’s what Tom’s taken to calling it – an old baseball term, he says.”

Kathryn winces. “I’ve heard the term. Leave it to Mr. Paris to dig up a metaphor that is equally colorful and unnerving.” Then she straightens her shoulders with resolve. “Simulations will be ready to run in an hour?”

“I’ll let you know when we begin,” B’Elanna confirms.

“Good.” Kathryn’s expression shifts. “B’Elanna, do you have just another minute? I’ve been wanting to…”

: _Sickbay to Lieutenant Torres_ :

B’Elanna taps her comm badge with a sigh. “Torres here.”

: _Your appointment was set to begin five minutes ago, Lieutenant. Can I expect to see you shortly or do I need to make a house call?_ :

Bristling at the Doctor’s ever-endearing mannerisms, B’Elanna begins, “I’m in a meeting with the Captain, Doctor. I’ll have to resche—”

Kathryn holds up a hand to stop her. “It can wait.” And then to the open comm line: “She’ll be down in a few minutes, Doctor.”

: _Thank you, Captain_ : The EMH’s tone is seeping with self-congratulation. : _I’ll see you shortly, B’Elanna. Sickbay out_ :

B’Elanna deliberately unclenches her jaw. “Captain, are you sure…?”

Kathryn waves off the question as she steps around the railing of the ready room dais and moves to her desk. “It will keep.” Already shuffling through PADDs, she looks up to add, “Let me know when those new simulations are ready to get started.”

Swallowing her resentment at being so neatly handled, B’Elanna nods, “Yes, Captain,” before heading for the door to make her way down to Sickbay.

...

 

“Hmm…” Miral pauses, peering closely first at the indicators on the instrument in her hand and then at the console at the side of the biobed. She frowns – an expression which B’Elanna recognizes as being from concentration, not confusion – and taps the console. The indicators respond favorably; Miral grins in satisfaction.

“Now just keep still for a few more minutes,” she instructs her mother, her eyes on the tissue regenerator as she passes it slowly and steadily up and down along the side of B’Elanna’s ankle.

“Yes, ma’am.” Propped up on her elbows to watch her daughter work, B’Elanna raises her brows in admiration. “You’ve got a knack for this, Miral.”

Lately, there’s been an inherent risk in giving Miral a compliment: her reactions will run the gamut from delight and pride to exasperated annoyance at her parents’ observations: how dare they pay attention to what she’s doing? This time, however, any response is mitigated by the Doctor who, moving over to check on their progress, overhears B’Elanna’s comment and beams.

“She does, doesn’t she?” The hologram glances at the readings on the console and nods his approval. “Miral is an extremely attentive student of medicine.” His expression shifts to a smirk as he adds pointedly, “Not a genetic trait evidently, given the lack of aptitude of a certain previous pupil of mine.” 

Rolling her eyes, B’Elanna considers coming to her husband’s defense, but, before she can, Miral turns to the EMH with a question: “Did I compensate for the variance in the cortisol levels correctly?”

The Doctor turns back to his goddaughter and nods again. “Perfectly. It will take a few extra minutes for the regenerative cycle to complete – which could have been avoided by dealing with the sprain in a timely manner.” The EMH glances over Miral’s head to raise a critical eyebrow at B’Elanna; she glowers back. With a humph, he looks back at Miral: “Given the circumstances, you are proceeding exactly as I would myself.”

Miral glows at his approval – apparently compliments from the Doctor are still very acceptable – and the EMH smiles back before a cough from Sickbay’s entrance requests his attention. He turns to greet the new entrant: “Ah! Mr. Telfer! I haven’t seen you in several days. I was beginning to worry…”

As the Doctor moves off to deal with his most frequent visitor, Miral looks up at B’Elanna apologetically. “It should just be another minute or two. I know you’re busy.” She bites her lip as she looks back down at the regenerator, as if willing it to work a little faster.

B’Elanna waves off her concern. “You’re fine, _targhHom_. I’ve got some time yet.”

Miral smiles, reassured. Then, with some hesitance, she ventures, “Naomi said that Icheb said that you and Uncle Harry were working on a spatial…uh…” She squints, searching her memory for the term.

“Spatial flexure,” B’Elanna supplies. She frowns: _Voyager_ ’s two decades old rumor mill has apparently lost none of its vigor. Not that there is any reason that Miral shouldn’t know about the project. Except that…

“Should I be scared?”

Except that _that_.

“Miral –”

Miral’s eyes are still – probably unnecessarily now – on the instrument in her hand as she continues to pass it along B’Elanna’s ankle; the movement has become somewhat less steady and assured. “It’s just that Naomi said that if you are able to open it – open the spatial flexure – that Dad would be the one flying through it.”

“That’s right,” B’Elanna agrees, wondering from whom Naomi had gleaned that tidbit of information.

“Dad wouldn’t take the helm unless it…the spatial flexure…were dangerous.”

Something in B’Elanna’s chest contracts painfully but she nods. “That’s also probably true.” She wishes Miral would look up so that she could read her better.

 _Tom’s_ _so much better with these sorts of things_ …

Leaning forward on the biobed, B’Elanna reaches out to touch her daughter’s arm: “Miral? Are you scared?”

Miral finally looks up: there are tears in her eyes. “Miral –” B’Elanna reaches out and the girl moves into her embrace, half sitting on the biobed in order to be able to duck her head into B’Elanna’s chest, sobbing quietly.

B’Elanna strokes her daughter’s back, resisting the still instinctive urge to make the shushing sound that had always soothed her as an infant, wishing fervently that all Miral’s woes could still be solved so simply.

“ _TarghHom_ ,” she whispers into Miral’s curls, “it’s okay to be scared.”

Miral shudders against her, drawing in a jagged breath. “But that’s…the thing,” her voice is a whisper as well, her words punctuated by sharp intakes of breath.

B’Elanna frowns in confusion, wishing Tom were there. “What’s the thing, Miral?”

“I’m not.” And, drawing in another shaky breath, Miral pulls back to look at B’Elanna. “I’m not scared.”

B’Elanna’s head aches dully. “Then why…?”

“Naomi is scared.” Miral explains in a rush. “I can tell. Almost like I can smell it or something?” B’Elanna nods in understanding. “And other people are scared too. Ensign Bronowski was yesterday even though he was trying to hide it.”

B’Elanna nods again and then purses her lips, beginning to put the pieces together. “But you’re not? Scared?”

“No.” Miral shakes her head. “Is there…” she looks at B’Elanna, tears beginning to well in her eyes again. “Is there something wrong with me?”

B’Elanna’s breath catches as her own words from thirteen years earlier echo in her mind: _“When the people around you are all one way and you're not, you can't help feeling…”_

“Miral…” This time B’Elanna pulls her daughter into a full embrace, holding her tightly. Then, she draws back just enough to look Miral fully in the eye. “Miral Josephine Torres Paris, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you.” B’Elanna reaches one hand up to trace Miral’s ridged forehead. “You’re my daughter: you have Klingon genes and Klingon hormones and sometimes Klingon reactions, that’s all. Your reactions may be different than a full human or a half-human, half-Ktarian’s reactions, but that doesn’t make them wrong.”

Miral considers that; lifting her chin, she asks, “Are you scared?”

B’Elanna pauses before answering. Her maternal instincts might be next to non-existent, but she recognizes when absolute honesty is needed. “I’m worried,” she says carefully. “I’m worried about the ship and the crew and your father and most especially you, _targhHom_.” Then, emphasizing each word, “But, no. I’m not scared either.”

Miral lets out a long breath, swallows and manages a weak smile. “Okay.” A new thought occurs to her and her expression shifts. “Is Dad?” There is real curiosity in her voice. “I mean, is Dad scared?”

B’Elanna tilts her head, considering that, and raises her brows. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think he is. Worried about the crew and about you, yes, but, no, not scared.”

“But he’s all human,” Miral points out.

B’Elanna grins conspiratorially. “Guess he’s been hanging around us Klingons too much, huh?”  

Miral rolls her eyes and then giggles. B’Elanna snorts a laugh, inordinately relieved that she hasn’t managed to completely screw this up.  She pats her daughter’s arm: “Better finish up on the ankle now before the Doc wanders back over.”

On the other side of Sickbay, Billy Telfer still has the Doctor’s full attention, but Miral nods, slipping off the biobed and resuming her work.

B’Elanna watches her daughter, reassured by the again steady movements of her hands. Tom had been correct in his long-ago prediction that Miral’s childhood aboard _Voyager_ would be very different than the experience B’Elanna had had growing up on a provincial Federation colony. For all the dangers and hardships that the ship had gone through, Miral’s childhood had been a happy one and _Voyage_ r’s crew had always been her extended family. Today’s anxieties had been the exception to the rule — for now.

That said, B’Elanna is fully aware that the girl in front of her is no longer a child; she frowns, buried memories of her own adolescent battles surfacing. Then, deliberately, she blinks away those thoughts: there may well be more struggles in Miral’s near future, but, for today, B’Elanna is content to celebrate small victories.

Five minutes later, enjoying more than she’d willingly admit the relief of being pain free for the first time in a week, B’Elanna walks out of Sickbay’s open doors — and runs straight into her husband.

“Hey there!” Tom catches her shoulders to avoid a collision. His glance immediately falls to her ankle and she scowls, her good mood evaporating.

“Coming to check up on me?” she asks, turning without waiting for an answer and striding (… _gods it feels good to move freely again…_ ) down the corridor.

Undaunted, Tom jogs to catch up. “No, actually, I was over in sensor operations checking the efficiency ratings of the lateral sensors.” He waves the PADD in his hand as evidence.

“Which brought you to the doors of Sickbay how exactly?”

“Okay, that was to check up on you,” he admits, stepping in front of her to halt her progress and to give her his best puppy-dog-eyed apology.

She snorts: it’s been a while since she’s been on the receiving end of that particular look. “Well as you can see, I’m fine, so you can stop acting like a mothering _blomaq_.” The corner of her mouth twitches up as she adds, “Miral did a full ligament regeneration for me.”

“Really?” B’Elanna nods and enjoys watching Tom’s expression break into a proud parental grin. “That girl has talent. Was she able to compensate for the cortisol levels?”

B’Elanna nods. “On her first try.” She raises an eyebrow. “The Doctor was impressed.”

“She impressed the Doctor?” Tom adopts a mock pout. “Well then, she’s one up on her old man.”

“Indeed,” B’Elanna agrees. They fall back into step beside each other, continuing on toward the turbolift. “So how do the sensor numbers look?” She indicates his PADD.

“Better than expected, actually.” He grins at her as they walk. “I’m beginning to think we may actually pull this caper off, Torres.”

B’Elanna has been keeping her own optimism deliberately in check, but she can’t help smiling at Tom’s enthusiasm — or noticing that his step is lighter than it’s been in a long while. Perhaps his late night conversation with Chakotay had had more than one beneficial outcome.

“Going up?” he asks when they reach the turbolift.

She nods as he touches the control panel: “I need to reroute the primary control for both deflectors’ modulators from the bridge station to Main Engineering,” she explains.

An empty lift arrives and they both step in. Tom sighs in exaggerated satisfaction as the lift doors close. “Self-closing doors; turbolift rides — it’s like we’re living in the 24th century.”

B’Elanna snorts. “Don’t get used to it: we reinitialized the system to complete the repairs but, once they’re done, it’s back to climbing rungs for you.”

“I’ll enjoy it while I can then,” Tom promises. “In fact,” and his grin turns teasing, “what are you doing in an hour or so, Chief?” He raises a suggestive brow, his eyes playful. “Maybe we should enjoy it together?”

“You’re an idiot,” she points out. But she’s grinning back. She’s missed this Tom.

He takes a step closer. “Yes, but I’m your idiot.”

At which moment, the turbolift halts and the doors open to reveal the _Voyager_ ’s bridge — complete with red lights pulsing and klaxons sounding.

Seated in the command chair below, Kathryn turns her head to greet her two incoming officers: “Looks like the Borg found us a little ahead of schedule.”

...


	4. Chapter 4

Tom recovers a step faster than B’Elanna: already he’s striding down the ramp to the main bridge level, all levity having vanished from his demeanor. Blinking back a misplaced sense of disappointment, B’Elanna crosses along the back of the bridge to the engineering station.

Tom stops alongside Kathryn’s chair. “When did they find us?”

“Just now.” The Captain nods up to Nozawa at Ops. “Lieutenant Nozawa has been able to track the cube’s movements for the last couple of hours and caught their shift in trajectory almost immediately.” Kashimuro’s grim expression reflects little satisfaction at a job well done.

“How far out are they?” B’Elanna directs her question towards Ops.

“A little more than two light years away.” And then, anticipating the obvious follow up, Nozawa adds: “At their current speed they should arrive in the system in approximately six hours.”

Too soon? B’Elanna begins running calculations in her head.

Kathryn stands, nodding to Tom and then B’Elanna. “Commander, Lieutenant: with me.” She turns to Nozawa. “Lieutenant, if there is the slightest change in that cube’s direction or speed, I want to be notified immediately.” Kashimuro nods, drawing a long breath as he turns back to the Ops monitor. The Captain looks across to the tactical station. “Mr. Ayala, you have the bridge.”

B’Elanna catches Ayala’s eye as he crosses down to the command chair. The one time Maquis gives her a confident wink; the corner of B’Elanna’s lips twitch: she’ll have to remember to tell Miral that she can add one more fearless shipmate to her tally.

B’Elanna follows Tom and Kathryn into the ready room, turning to close the door behind her before joining the other two standing by Kathryn’s desk. Kathryn swivels her monitor around, comming Engineering and Sickbay as she does so.

As the Doctor and Harry appear on the screen, Harry immediately launches into his pitch: “Captain, the simulations have gone better than we could have hoped. Icheb was able to fully invert Commander Chakotay’s sensor-deflector interface and the added power to the auxiliary deflector wave is enough to sustain the oscillation.” His voice turns urgent. “Captain, we can pull this off.”

Kathryn’s arms are folded and her expression shares little of Harry’s enthusiasm. Nevertheless, she raises an eyebrow, tilting her head towards Tom and B’Elanna. “To be honest, I think we’re officially out of other options. Now that the Borg have found us, I wouldn’t risk bringing the Gibrati to their attention, even if we were to take the precaution of destroying _Voyager_.”

“Won’t the Gibrati be at risk now that we’ve drawn the Borg into their system regardless?” the Doctor asks. B’Elanna glances at Tom who is chewing on the inside of his lip, the same concern having obviously occurred to him.

Kathryn shakes her head. “The Gibrati council was unconcerned about such an occurrence; the Borg have passed through the system before. All the same,” and her brow furrows, “I’d prefer to give the Borg no reason to turn their attention to the inner planets.”

Visibly impatient, Harry jumps back in: “Captain, we can do this.”

Kathryn turns to her chief engineer. “B’Elanna?”

B’Elanna draws a breath then nods. “We can do it — though barely. Even utilizing all available hands, it will take at least five hours to get the ship prepped for surface take-off and underway. Once we break orbit, we’ll need to put some distance between us and the planet’s gravity before attempting-” she catches herself, “-before _opening_ the flexure.”

Tom tilts his head. “Might help if the Borg hit a speed bump or two on their way here.”

Kathryn snorts at the anachronism. “I don’t think we can count on that.”

“I’ll need to be on the bridge in order to manually balance the deflector booster modulation and stabilizers while we are opening the flexure. There won’t be time to reroute the controls,” B’Elanna adds. “Vorik will be able to handle things in Engineering.”

Kathryn nods. “Lieutenant Kim, I’ll want a full report on our tactical status.”

“Yes, Captain,” Harry responds not bothering to hide his satisfaction.

She levels her gaze at her erstwhile pilot. “You’re confident that you’ll be able to compensate for the lack of lateral sensors?”

The corners of Tom’s mouth tug upward and his eyes spark. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good, because, unless the Borg find one of your speed bumps, this might be a rough ride. Doctor --”

“Miral and I will have Sickbay ready,” the EMH assures her.

Kathryn's chin lifts as her hands fall to her hips: the change in energy from the meeting less than twenty-four hours earlier is palpable. “Let’s get ready to make our break then — I trust all of you to pull off the impossible once again.”

As she and Tom exit the ready room together, B’Elanna’s mind is already in Engineering, working out the checklist of tasks that will need to be assigned and accomplished in the next few hours. As she turns to head up toward the turbolift, she feels Tom’s hand on her elbow.

“Hey, B’Elanna?” His voice is pitched low, for her ears only. “Consider leaving those turbolifts on for an extra day or two, hmm?” He waggles an eyebrow and she snorts at his ridiculousness. But the warmth in his eyes and the pressure of his hand on her arm belies the levity of his words. She swallows and nods, acknowledging all that’s left unsaid before heading up the ramp.

B’Elanna pauses at the open door of the turbolift to look back as Tom relieves Henley at the conn. She watches as he folds his frame into the familiar seat, the signs of tension in his neck and shoulders disappearing as his long fingers play across the console. Smiling to herself, she steps into the turbolift: Tom will take care of his share of pulling off this miracle; she needs to see to her part.

 ...

 

Engineering is abuzz with activity.

Vorik has already called in the cavalry to prep the ship for launch. Clustered around the warp core control station, Mulcahey, Jor and Ashmore are working to ready the core for reinitialization while coordinating via an open comm line with Tabor, Mendez and their teams who are prepping the vented nacelles to be replenished with plasma. In the main level alcove, B’Elanna glimpses Dalby and Gilmore who, from the sound of it, are shutting down the ongoing repair operations throughout the ship. Harry and Vorik, she knows, will be on the upper level finishing up the final calculations for the flexure, probably with Icheb and Harren assisting.

B’Elanna stops herself from doing a second scan of the room — Chakotay seems to have made good on his promise to Tom and then retired back to his quarters. She feels a twist of disappointment in her gut.

“ _taHqeq_ ,” she mutters, hating that, after ten years, she still bothers to hope.

She swallows back her bitterness: there are plenty of more pressing concerns to deal with right now.

The lift from the upper level descends and Harry, catching sight of her, hops off and crosses to meet her. “Vorik can fill you in on the deflector simulations — I need to get the Captain her tactical report.”

B’Elanna nods and smiles. “Thanks for lending an extra hand down here, Starfleet. It felt like old times.”

Harry grins at the nickname before his expression falters. “B’Elanna, about what I said last night…”

She shakes her head. “Forget it.”

“No, look, I know — I _know_ how much you and Tom both…”

“Harry?” She meets his eyes. “Really. Forget it.” And she gives him a wry half-grin. “Just go get us ready to kick some Borg ass if needed, okay?”

His eyes glint in response. “I’m on it.”

Her gaze trails after Harry before she shifts her attention back to Engineering. Taking the lift to the upper level, she finds Vorik at the main workstation and is quickly brought up to speed on the simulations completed in her absence.

“How is the particle intensity from the auxiliary deflector?”

“With the additional power from the sensor tie-in, we have been able to increase the wave modulation and match the auxiliary deflector’s amplitude to that of the main deflector. The oscillation between the two waves should be sufficient to allow us to open the flexure.”

“Are we still relying on the EPS reserves?”

Vorik nods. “Unless we utilize additional power from the forward sensor array, it will be necessary to make full use of the reserves in order to achieve the necessary amplitude levels.”

B’Elanna considers that: Harry’s assessment of the simulation results had been somewhat optimistic.

She raises her brows at Vorik. “I assume you’ve calculated the probability of success for this little venture of ours?”

The Vulcan raises his own mild eyebrow in response. “I believe we will be successful.”

B’Elanna tilts her head and gives him a look of suspicion: “Because of your calculations or in spite of them?”

“Because I have never known you to fail, Lieutenant.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Vorik, I think your logic might be slipping.”

“There may be some truth in your assessment.”

B’Elanna opens her mouth, begins to stutter a response, and then closes it again. Fortunately, Vorik is blessedly unperturbed and, without missing a beat, turns the conversation back to the engineering matters at hand.

Over the next four hours, B’Elanna watches as her staff completes the nearly impossible: even with a full crew complement and a starbase worth of resources, readying an _Intrepid_ -class starship to reenter space should be a full day’s work. But, she reflects with quiet pride, no ship tucked snugly into a dry dock berth has a crew that knows its inner workings half so well as _Voyager_ ’s does.

“Lieutenant?” She looks up as Mulcahey approaches. “The core and nacelles are both readied for reinitialization and are currently on standby mode.”

B’Elanna checks the chronometer on the console in front of her: they’d beaten her estimate to the Captain with thirty minutes to spare.

She gives Mulcahey a nod and asks him to pass on her thanks to his teams.

Taking a step back from her console, she draws in a long breath as her eyes travel around Engineering, coming to rest on the still burnt out consoles lining the back wall of the main level.

Vorik’s voice cuts across her thoughts: “Crewmen Dalby and Gilmore have reported that all repair sites have been closed down in readiness for the ship’s departure.”

B’Elanna nods, still contemplating the damaged consoles: once they get through the flexure, she’s going to move their repair up on the priority list.

She turns to face Vorik — Vorik who, in the Alpha Quadrant, would easily have earned his own engine room a decade ago. The corner of her mouth quirks. “Engineering is yours, Lieutenant. Try to hand her back to me in one piece, would you?”

“I will endeavor to do so, Lieutenant,” is his even response.

The corner of B’Elanna’s mouth quirks, and she reaches out to clasp the Vulcan’s shoulder. Then, dropping her hand and with one last look back at the spiraling blues of the warp core, she heads out the doors to make her way back up to the bridge.

...

 

The klaxons have mercifully been silenced by the time B’Elanna steps back onto the bridge, but the flashing red lights still indicate the high alert status. Tom has, for the moment, moved back to the center of the bridge where he sits in a close conference with the Captain. Both look toward B’Elanna expectantly as she walks down the ramp.

“The core and nacelles are prepped and the repair teams have closed up shop: we’re as ready as we’re going to be,” she reports.

Kathryn nods and turns to the tactical station. “Harry?”

“Ablative shield integrity is at twenty-two percent and we have three transphasic torpedoes armed and loaded.” Harry’s eyes flash. “We’ll give the Borg some trouble if they show up, Captain.”

“And will they show up?” the Captain turns the question to Nozawa who shakes his head.

“The cube is moving through the class 2 nebula at the edge of the system: they could be anywhere from ten minutes to a full hour out.”

The corner of Kathryn’s lips quirks up and there is a glint in her eye that is not dissimilar to that in Harry’s. “Well then - I guess it’s time to make our move.”

From above comes the sound of the turbolift doors swishing open. Puzzled, B’Elanna looks up, as do both Tom and Kathryn. Tuvok stands within the confines of the lift, his fingers steepled together at his chest.

“Permission to enter the bridge, Captain.”

B’Elanna’s eyes flick to Kathryn’s face and then quickly fall away from the naked emotion that marks the other woman’s features. Tom hastily rises and moves away from the first officer’s chair. “My seat’s over here,” he says, reclaiming the helm.

Looking up at Tuvok, the Captain indicates the now vacant chair next to her with a soft smile. Tuvok hesitates, but Kathryn tilts her head in mute appeal. Finally, the Vulcan moves down to sit beside her.

B’Elanna meantime has moved to the engineering station. Establishing a direct comm link to Engineering, she briefly checks in with Vorik before pulling up the bridge deflector controls. From behind, she hears another telltale swish, this time from the rear turbolift doors. It’s not until the rest of the bridge goes strangely still that she turns to see Chakotay standing on the upper dais.

The red lights flash on and off behind him as the silence stretches.

“I thought perhaps-”

“I didn’t expect-”

The command team’s eyes meet as their words tumble out on top of each other. Chakotay gives a weak attempt at a grin and tries again: “I thought my place might be up here today.”

Eyes widening, Kathryn simply nods in response. Tuvok begins to stand, offering Chakotay the first officer’s chair. Chakotay waves him off. “I’ll be fine right here,” he says and moves to what was once Seven of Nine’s preferred station along the upper bridge rail.

As he’s keying on the console, Chakotay looks up and meets B’Elanna’s eyes across the bridge. Swallowing back a rush of emotions for which she has no time, she manages to give her one time mentor a nod of acknowledgment before turning resolutely back to her work.

“Engineering reports ready for Code Blue,” she relays.

The Captain leans forward in her seat, her full focus once again on the task ahead. “Well then, Commander Paris, at your convenience, let’s get underway.”

“Yes, ma’am — initializing Code Blue. Bringing anti-grav thrusters on-line now.”

“Re-setting inertial dampers to flight configuration,” B’Elanna puts in.

“Anti-grav thrusters enabled and take off in 3,2,1…now.”

B’Elanna’s eyes flash up to the viewscreen as _Voyager_ rises to hover above the moon’s surface. A thrill runs down her spine: even after all these years there is the feel of release in being airborne once again.

“Atmospheric thrusters online and impulse drive on standby,” she reports.

“Mr. Paris—” A softness in the Captain’s tone suggests that B’Elanna is not alone in her reaction to _Voyager_ ’s lift-off— “take us out.”

Years ago, Tom had attempted - fairly unsuccessfully - to describe to B’Elanna the difference between flying in open space and flying in atmosphere. He had waxed on poetically about feeling out air currents and angling against the pull of gravity. B’Elanna had enjoyed the excitement flashing in his blue eyes but listened with dubiety, exact numbers for the mass of a starship and the power of its thrusters suggesting that such talk was words only.

Now, as _Voyager_ glides seemingly effortlessly up through clouds of thick methane and into the moon’s mesosphere, she watches Tom’s fingers dance across the helm’s controls and is tempted to reconsider her skepticism. And, for a moment, she wishes that Miral were up on the bridge to see her father fly.

Perhaps it’s a good thing that they hadn’t settled for that small house along the Gibrati shoreline after all.

As they come out of the ionosphere, her attention is again firmly focused on the control panel in front of her. “Reinitializing the warp core and engaging the nacelles — impulse drive will be back online -” B’Elanna waits for the confirmation from Vorik, “-now.”

“Impulse engines engaged and proceeding at full impulse,” Tom confirms.

“We’ll need to clear 20 million kilometers from the moon and planet before we can attempt to open the flexure. And, Tom,” she glances back at the helm, “I’ll need to pull the lateral sensors offline now.”

Tom nods. “I’m already on it.”

“I’ve got a fix on the Borg vessel,” Nozawa calls from Ops. “It’s four minutes out.”

B’Elanna doesn’t bother to complete the calculation in her head: either this will work, or it won’t.

For the next few minutes, silence claims the bridge. B’Elanna has to stop herself from leaning forward against her console towards the viewscreen, as if she could will _Voyager_ past full impulse.

“Approaching 20 million kilometers out.”

B’Elanna lets out a breath. “Initializing primary and aux—”

A proximity alarm cuts across her words.

The Borg have arrived.


	5. Chapter 5

“ _We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile._ ”

“Not today it isn’t,” Kathryn spits back. “Lieutenant Kim?”

“Shields up with randomized harmonics. Ablative armor has been deployed.”

“Good — hold onto those transphasic torpedoes until we have something to shoot at.” The Captain turns towards B’Elanna. “Will we still be able to open the flexure with the shields and armor up?”

“The shields shouldn’t be an issue, but we’ll have to keep within—” with a frown, she pulls the range up on her console— “two million kilometers of the aperture point.”

At the helm, Tom snorts. “Well that should definitely make things interesting.”

Kathryn eyes her helmsman. “Can you do it?”

Tom nods. “But the inertial dampers aren’t likely to be happy with me — so hold on to something.”

“The Borg are powering weapons,” Nozawa calls from Ops.

Kathryn settles back into her seat, gripping her armrests. “B’Elanna, get that flexure open.”

“Right. Primary and auxiliary deflector waves initialized — we’ll need approximately one minute to build to the necessary amplitudes for the oscillation to open the flexure.”

“They’re initiating an energy beam!”

B’Elanna’s shoulder slams against the bulkhead as Tom banks the ship, spinning away from the weapon.

“The beam glanced off of the dorsal armor; armor integrity holding at nineteen percent,” Nozawa reports.

“Maintaining range to the aperture.”

“Twenty seconds to critical amplitude. Fifteen, ten…”

“More incoming — three tachyon missiles.”

This time, the Borg find their mark, and the ship rocks at the impact; the bridge lights flicker off, then back on.

“Damage report?” the Captain demands.

Nozawa works feverishly at his console. “Direct hit to the port nacelle — it’s been disabled.”

: _Lieutenant Torres_ : Vorik’s ever unflappable voice comes over the comm line. : _The impact to the port nacelle has caused a feedback surge throughout the EPS system. All power in the reserves has been lost_ :

Kathryn tenses, turning to B’Elanna. “Will we still be able to open the flexure?”

B’Elanna shakes her head. “Not without additional power.”

“Pull it from the forward sensor array.”

B’Elanna swivels towards the helm, wondering if she heard Tom incorrectly. “You’d be flying blind.”

“Better than not flying at all.”

Kathryn’s eyes flick from her pilot to her engineer. “Do it.”

B’Elanna hits the comm line. “Vorik, get Icheb to tie in the forward…”

“Belay that.” Chakotay’s voice cuts across her words. “I’m already on it.” B’Elanna turns to see Chakotay’s hands flying across his console. “The interface should be active - now.”

B’Elanna looks down at her own monitor to see both deflector waves again gaining in amplitude. She glances back toward Chakotay.  “Glad you decided to join us,” she says and, this time, manages to add a small grin. Chakotay nods in response, his own expression unreadable.

She turns back to her station. “Flexure opening in 3,2,1 —”

White light fills the viewscreen before coalescing back down to the pulsing brilliance of the spatial flexure’s aperture. B’Elanna doesn’t take time to celebrate: “We’ll need another thirty seconds for the aperture to open wide enough for _Voyager_ to enter.”

“Captain—” Harry calls out— “the Borg are moving towards the flexure. They’re trying to cut us off.”

The Captain rises from her chair, hands on hips, observing on the viewscreen the cube’s movement toward the flexure. “Looks like it’s time to use those torpedoes, Mr. Kim.”

“Captain? If I may?” Kathryn turns with surprise at Tuvok’s words but quickly nods. “Lieutenant Kim, am I reading correctly that there is a slight weakness in the cube’s aft shields near the vessel’s secondary distribution node?”

“I see it—” Harry confirms— “but it’s not enough to make the section vulnerable to a torpedo.”

“Not one perhaps, but what if we were to use our full remaining armament of torpedoes on that section simultaneously?”

Harry’s eyes widen. “If we use all three torpedoes, it might well slow them down — but only for a minute until they are able to regenerate or reroute around the damage.” _And it would leave_ Voyager _defenseless_ , hangs in the air unstated.

Kathryn waves a hand. “A minute is all we need — do it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry responds. “Torpedoes targeted…and away.”

B’Elanna looks up to watch the three weapons streak across the viewscreen and then ducks away from the flash of impact.

“The cube’s progress has been halted,” Harry reports with satisfaction.

B’Elanna looks back down at her monitor. “The aperture is fully open.”

Kathryn takes a step forward toward the helm. “Full ahead, now!”

“Already on our way,” Tom confirms.

“The Borg still have weapons. They’re targeting the core.”

An image of burnt out consoles flashes across B’Elanna’s mind; she blinks it back. “The armor should hold until we’re through the flexure.”

“One million kilometers to go.”

 _Voyager_ shudders as the Borg energy beam engages.

“Armor at nine percent.”

“Flexure opening directly ahead.”

The flexure is filling the viewscreen now, blinding white light ringing the aperture which rises tall in front of them — tall and very, very narrow.

B’Elanna’s hands grip her station. “Tom!”

“Hold on!” he yells.

Tom rolls the ship hard on its axis and the inertial dampers fail completely, throwing anyone standing across the deck —  from somewhere behind B’Elanna, Harry yells something about the armor being depleted — and then _Voyager_ slips quietly through the slit in space.

 ...

 

: _Sickbay to the bridge._ :

The voice is coming from very near to B’Elanna’s head — too near.

 _:Captain Janeway? Anyone? Please respond_ :

The dull pain behind her temple begins to throb.

: _This is the EMH to anyone who can respond — I need to know…_ :

Forcing her eyes open, B’Elanna fumbles her hand across the panel to key open the comm line. “Doctor, we’re here.”

Are they? And where is here?

B’Elanna raises her head, blinking as she scans the bridge. Bodies are slumped over consoles and against bulkheads but all seem to be showing signs of life, mostly in the form of hands moving to their heads. B’Elanna winces with sympathy, pressing a palm against her own brow.

: _B’Elanna?_ :

She shakes her head — gently — trying to focus, to prioritize… “Miral!” she turns the question to the comm. “Doctor, is Miral —”

: _She’s fine_ : The Doctor’s reassurance comes quickly. : _She was unconscious for a few minutes as, I take it, you all were up there?_ :

“It seems so,” B’Elanna agrees.

: _What happened?_ :

A good question. The viewscreen shows a starfield: no Borg, no aperture, no distinguishing features. They could be…well, not anywhere…but close enough.

Around the bridge, people are beginning to move: Tom is upright at his station; Kathryn has straightened from where she had slid against a bulkhead and has made her way to Tuvok, who is still slumped over in the first officer’s chair. On the upper dais, Chakotay has moved to help Nozawa who is holding a hand to a gash on his forehead; Harry has made his way back to his station and is beginning to work his console.

: _B’Elanna?_ : The Doctor’s voice is gaining insistence.

B’Elanna gathers her thoughts: the flexure, the Borg ship, the energy beam aimed at the core, the armor failing... “I’m going to have to get back to you on that, Doc.” And she unceremoniously cuts him off mid-sputter as she switches the comm line over to Engineering. “Vorik? Is everything okay down there?”

There is a too long pause before Vorik’s somewhat groggy voice breaks through. : _The situation is stable._ _All personnel appear to have been rendered unconscious —_ : some confusion leaks into Vorik’s usually unflappable tone— : _but only minor injuries appear to have been sustained_ :

“The core?”

: _Undamaged_ :

B’Elanna releases a long held breath. “Thank you, Vorik — I’ll be down there as soon as I can.”

Tuvok is still slumped over in his seat with Kathryn kneeling at his side. B’Elanna looks over at Tom, surprised that he hasn’t already moved to check on the Vulcan. Her half-formed words die in her throat when she sees Tom’s expression as he looks down at his monitor.

“What is it?” she asks.

Tom turns, looking not at her, but up and across to Harry who is also at work on his console. “Are you reading what I’m reading?”

Harry looks up and nods, swallowing.

“What?” The question comes out more sharply than B’Elanna intends and draws the attention of the rest of the bridge.

Tom’s eyes lock with B’Elanna’s before he nods to Harry. “You tell them.”

“Tell us what?” Still kneeling beside Tuvok, Kathryn looks up, first at Tom and then toward Harry.

“If these readings are correct—” Tom raises his eyebrows at Harry’s glance and nods his confirmation— “we’re in the Beta Quadrant, 1500 light years out from sector J-25.” Harry pauses and looks down, swallowing again before looking back up to meet Kathryn’s searching eyes. “Captain, we’re less than five years from home.”

...

 

The gathering is a quiet one, almost solemn in tone. No one is feeling like celebrating: too much has been lost along the way. But there is a desire to mark this event together, as a family, a desire that Chell understands well — as had Neelix before him.

By the time B’Elanna is able to join, people are well settled in, sitting or standing together in small, companionable groups. Between sampling of the hors d’oeuvres that Chell and Bronowski have somehow thrown together and enjoying some rare synthehol rations, B’Elanna notices her crewmates stealing glances often, almost reflexively, at the view beyond the expansive mess hall viewport.

Peering around a couple of tight clusters of crewmembers, B’Elanna spies Tom, Harry and Miral at one of the back corner tables, playing a round of kal-toh. Harry and Miral sit on one side of the table and Harry leans close in towards Miral’s ear, coaching her as she reaches out toward one of the _t’ans_. Glancing up, he notices B’Elanna watching and smiles — and there is something of the old Harry Kim in that smile.

Continuing to scan the room, B’Elanna at last finds Kathryn. She’s standing alone along the viewport wall, staring out into space. There is a glass in her hand but she isn’t drinking — by the look of it, her thoughts are thousands of light years away.

She startles as B’Elanna approaches, almost spilling her still-full glass. “Sorry,” she apologizes, shaking her head. “My mind was on absent friends.”

B’Elanna wonders whether the Captain’s referring to those of the crew lost in the Delta Quadrant — or whether instead she is thinking of those still among the living but absent from the gathering. Tuvok is in Sickbay, lying on a biobed in an induced coma while his already stressed mind attempts to heal itself from the added trauma of the flexure passage. And Chakotay…Chakotay had slipped off the bridge and back to his quarters as soon as it was clear that the ship was secure. Late that night, B’Elanna had arrived back to her own quarters to find an eight word message: _You were right. It’s what she would’ve wanted._ She’s seen or heard nothing from him since.

Kathryn is waiting patiently and B’Elanna shakes such thoughts away, focusing on the damage report that had been her reason for seeking out the Captain: the port nacelle had been hit most critically and would require three to four days’ worth of EVA repairs before they could get back underway.

“We’ve also sent out your communique to Starfleet. It should take about two weeks to reach the nearest subspace transmission point so we should be able to hear back from them within a month.  Then we can start working to establish a new singularity relay for real time communication.”

Kathryn only nods at the prospect of re-establishing regular contact with Federation space for the first time in a decade. Her gaze shifts back out to the stars.

The silence stretches and B’Elanna begins to fidget, tugging at the wrists of her uniform and looking for an excuse to slip away. She almost misses Kathryn’s next words:

“It’s four, you know.”

B’Elanna frowns in confusion. “Captain?”

Kathryn’s eyes stay on the stars. “Two days ago. You said that I only trusted…that there were only three people whom I’d ever implicitly trusted on this ship.” 

B’Elanna can feel heat building in her cheeks. “Captain, I shouldn’t have…”

Kathryn shakes her head. “No, you weren’t wrong. But you miscounted.” She gives a small smile. “Four, not three.”

She turns then and meets B’Elanna’s gaze head on.

“Thank you for getting my ship home.”

B’Elanna looks away, flustered. “Captain…Kathryn…I didn’t…”

Kathryn stops her with a gentle hand on her upper arm. B’Elanna looks back up and meets her captain’s eyes one more time. There is something in her expression that B’Elanna finds herself struggling to define. Before she is able to, the Captain turns away, waving her dismissal. “Now go celebrate with your family.”

“You could join us,” B’Elanna suggests.

She shakes her head. “I have an old friend to see to. Go. Captain’s orders.” And Kathryn begins moving towards the doors, stopping every couple of meters to put a hand on a shoulder or acknowledge a greeting.

B’Elanna angles through the crowd toward Tom, Harry and Miral’s table. Tom raises his arm in welcome and wraps it around her as she slides into the empty chair beside him. Across the table, Miral and Harry are still huddled in conspiratorial conference. B’Elanna’s eyes drift over their heads to the Beta Quadrant stars.

The Captain’s thanks had been premature: there’s a long road left ahead of them, and they are still very much alone. One senior officer lies in sickbay, his mental faculties ever more rapidly deteriorating and another seems to have slipped back into his self-imposed isolation. And their Captain…B’Elanna at last finds the word she had been hunting for earlier: haunted. The Captain’s eyes had been haunted.

Tom turns a questioning look at her. Across the table, Harry’s whispers another strategy to his protégé, and Miral’s expression lights up with anticipation. B’Elanna smiles and then gives the barest shake of her head in response to Tom’s unstated question. She relaxes back into his arm, enjoying its warmth and listening to the jumble of the dozen overlapping conversations surrounding them. No, they’re not home yet; but, just maybe, they’ve begun to reclaim some of what they’d almost lost along the way.


End file.
